


No Mercy

by adjourn



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Drama, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, picks up from Fort George
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 19:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5176136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adjourn/pseuds/adjourn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't called sin when you make something right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Mercy

_This is how it begins._

.

"Connor! Connor, get up! Please, friend, there isn't time."

The familiar French accent jolts Connor out of his daze, saves him from slipping into unconsciousness. He groans, dizzy from the shrill ringing in his ears, as Stephane helps him to his feet. Pain lances through his body.

"We must get out of here," Stephane urges. "The cannons—they do not stop, and Lee's men are still in the area."

Connor nods uncertainly and begins to follow his friend through the debris. His movements are clumsy and his head is pounding; he cannot think clearly amidst all the chaos, explosions and crumbling stone rattling the air. But he knows, after a couple steps, that he is forgetting something. What is it? Something important, imperative, absolutely vital—

Oh. He remembers now.

"Stop," Connor says. He staggers backwards, and a wave of lucidity drenches him, like diving into the cold waters of the Atlantic. "My father—we must go back and retrieve him."

"Connor, I apologize, but we do not have time for a corpse," Stephane says hurriedly, trying to tug him along once again.

Connor shakes his head.

"No. You do not understand. He is alive."

.

 _Wrong. That isn’t it. That is_ where _it begins._

_How, though? It is simpler —_

_— It begins with a passing thought._

.

Haytham’s hands are around Connor’s throat. They are cruel and bruising, tight enough to kill him. They are tight enough to make his mind spin and his vision flicker. But as Connor’s fingers twitch, ready to sink the hidden blade into his father’s neck, he thinks: Why is my arm free?

And that is enough.

Maybe he doesn’t make the conscious connection, the leap from _free arm_ to _Haytham allowing it_ to _he does not want to kill me_. He’s too disoriented to clearly wrangle such a conclusion. But that one thought carves out enough room for a feeling of doubt, and so Connor strikes Haytham in the temple with the corner of his fist, hard. The templar collapses on top of him, unconscious, and Connor has just managed to maneuver himself out from under Haytham when the explosions come.

.

That _is how it begins._

_(But mercy is never without is price.)_

.

Stephane and Connor, with Haytham slung over the latter’s shoulder, make to flee the bombardment. Connor spends their escape in a state of bizarre, unbreakable focus. He expertly navigates them through the wreckage, somehow feeling none of the day’s wounds and finding his balance even while bleeding and deaf in one ear.

It is a curious state, one that he might question more if he was in the right mind to do so. But now, Connor knows only survival. He knows only that Stephane deserves more, that Charles Lee must die, that Haytham must live. That his father must live.

Connor does not know what he believes of god. But the world, at least, brings him a miracle that day — they all make it out of Fort George alive, and then, in good time, back to the homestead as well.

.

After an exceedingly uncomfortable wagon ride home, Connor collapses on the manor's doorstep. When he awakens, he is stripped bare and bandaged. He feels as though he has been trampled by a horse, and he still can't hear out of one ear.

But there isn't time to worry about trivial things.

"How do you feel?" asks Lyle. The doctor leans close, checking the assassin’s pupils.

"I am fine," Connor lies.

He stands and immediately topples sideways; Stephane appears out of seemingly nowhere to stop his fall. Connor barely manages to hide his alarm at his comrade’s sudden appearance.

"Of course you are," Lyle says.

Connor scowls and shrugs off Stephane. He teeters a bit, but manages to hold himself upright.

"How is Haytham? The other man,” he adds, unsure of how much Stephane revealed.

The corners of Lyle's mouth turn downward, grim. "Not well. I do not know whether he will awaken or not. He is in worse shape than you, and I was not certain you would recover."

"How long has it been?" Connor asks.

"Four days," Stephane answers.

Connor is disturbed. Four days that the Templars have had to regroup, that Charles Lee might have used to flee. He must act post-haste.

"Make sure Haytham is properly restrained for when he awakens," Connor orders Stephane. "I must ready myself. There is a hunt ahead."

"Restraints are unnecessary. He won't be in any shape to move, much less attack anyone or whatever it is you expect," Lyle interrupts. "And you are not fully recovered, or even half so."

"Restrain him," Connor repeats firmly. And then he goes.

Charles Lee will die.

.

The hunt is long.

He travels all along the eastern shore, meets with contacts in side streets and dimly lit pubs, does favors for information and becomes accustomed to being completely deaf in one ear. The handicap results in a number of close calls, times when he should’ve heard a guard approaching earlier, yet he is mostly unhindered. If anything, it just forces him to kill more to compensate. But that is all habit by now, so easy that death feels like a still image, a memory he is viewing from the safety of the present.

He systematically decimates the remains of the Templar Order. He murders dozens and dozens of redcoats. The war keeps on, skirmishes in the woods abound, and he kills without conscience. He has already used up all the good will within him saving his father. There is no more room for mercy anymore.

When at last he has tracked down Charles Lee, finds him hunched over at a small table in a small inn in a small, broken town, and sees the reflection of an angry boy in his dark eyes, Connor knows that this man’s death will bring him no joy. Lee is disposed of in the time it takes for a coin to drop. And then Connor is gone, hollowed out, blood on his hands.

.

Connor returns to the homestead. The hunt is over.

Haytham has not awoken.

.

There is no room for joy in this world, Connor thinks, watching the slow rise and fall of Haytham’s chest.

At least not for a killer.

.

The days grow cold. The white haze of winter storms over Davenport, brings stiff winds and barren branches. In the morning, the sky is painted grey; in the afternoon, it is unnaturally bright as the sun burns off snow-covered earth. Mostly, it is night, and it is black outside.

Connor does his best to provide: He goes out to hunt, a difficult but not impossible task in the midst of winter, and spends the first hours after dawn chopping wood. He manages trade and helps Norris in the mine. To avoid the manor, where Haytham lies prone (alive, still alive), he takes too much time at Achilles’ grave, kneels there until his legs are numb and his hands are frozen into trembling fists. He usually feels thankful to the old man, for taking him in and shaping him into something sharp, something great — for making him a tool of liberty, for gifting him a life of meaning.

But on Sundays, when Connor sits in Timothy’s church with his head bowed, listening to the man speak of God and sin and evil, Connor cannot find it within himself to feel thankful. Not at all.

.

The season passes. Connor resists the temptation to page through his father’s journal, which Lyle had found tucked into his overcoat. He knows that the journal might hold vital information: secret locations, missed names, keys to a more thorough elimination of the Templar Order. Yet it would be wrong to invade the man’s privacy like that — and Connor, however he has lived thus far, wants to do what is right.

.

Winter is nearing its close when Haytham finally wakes. It is a dramatic affair, with Connor waking up in the middle of the night at a sudden _thud_ from the other bedroom, and bursting through the door. He finds Haytham collapsed on the ground, sweat trickling down his temple as he glares at Connor.

“Well, boy? Aren’t you going to help me up?” Haytham rasps when all Connor does is stare. The assassin, quite honestly, had not expected his father to ever wake up. Hope had been snuffed out by the blue shadows of winter; he had only continued to take care of Haytham, kept him clean and warm and breathing, out of — something. Connor is reluctant to call it loneliness.

Haytham clears his throat. Connor snaps out of his daze and goes to his father’s side. He wraps one arm around Haytham’s waist to help him stand.

“Finally,” Haytham says. His voice is hoarse; it sounds like it would be painful to be speak, but that certainly doesn’t stop him. “I was beginning to think you were planning on leaving me on this floor forever.”

Connor half-drags his father back to the bed; the man’s legs must be vastly weakened from the months of disuse, and unaccustomed to the weight of his body. Much muscle has been lost, and Haytham is uncomfortably thin. Connor does not register him as a threat. Then again, he is not registering much of anything.

“While I enjoy this new habit of silence from you, I hope you’re at least capable of speaking to answer a few questions,” Haytham says. Connor just pulls the blanket over him, and he scowls at the gentle treatment. “You are forgetting who the child is here.”

“I will return with a doctor,” Connor interjects, already making to leave the room. “Stay.”

“Do get someone with proper credentials,” Haytham calls after him. His voice cracks a bit, and Connor smiles for the first time in weeks.

.

According to Lyle, Haytham will make a full recovery given enough time. He has a set of exercises to perform each day that will get his body in proper working order, but Connor doesn’t imagine they will be particularly difficult for the templar. The man has likely already thought of a regimen on top of that.

After Lyle packs up his things and leaves the manor, Connor is alone with his father once more. He is unsure of what to say, still stunned, still brimming with intense relief. Haytham is _alive_.

“I presume you’ve gone and destroyed my life’s work in these past months, haven’t you, boy?”

Haytham is also, apparently, as talkative and contrary as ever.

“I have made the world a better place,” Connor says. He at least still partially believes this: the Templar Order must be eliminated, that he knows. That he has truly made the world a better place, however, that his good has outweighed the evils committed — that he is not certain.

Haytham smiles, somewhere between pitying and fond. “And you’re still the same stubborn fool as before.”

“Fortunately not, father. Or you would not be alive now.”

“Is that a threat?” Haytham raises an eyebrow. Even pale and gaunt and exhausted, he manages to be poised.

“No,” Connor says. “I tire of threats.”

Haytham looks surprised. “Perhaps you’ve changed after all, son. You’ve become soft.” He says the word with a faint note of amusement, close to derision.

Is that so bad, to be soft? Connor wonders. Is his work not done, are the Templars not crippled for at least a long while?

Can he not rest, now? Connor thinks. Until the Order calls once more, can he not be _good_ for a bit?

“I will get you some some soup,” Connor says.

.

Time lulls, winter finishes, and they settle into routine. Haytham spends his mornings exercising, and they eat breakfast together. Connor is gone the majority of the day doing work around the homestead; he is reluctant to travel into town, and letters from Stephane let him know that affairs are in order. If there is any hint of templar activity, Connor will attend to it. But for now, he can be soft. He is free to chat with the residents of Davenport, enjoy his friends’ company in the warmth of the approaching springtime, and return to a recovering Haytham in the evening.

Haytham does not interact with the other homesteaders much. He keeps to himself, and Connor only ever sees him inside the manor, though he must venture outside during the hours Connor is gone. The assassin is glad for his father’s taciturn behavior, however out-of-character. Haytham is part of a different world, a secret that the peaceful shopkeepers and farmers of Davenport cannot be privy to. They do ask about his father sometimes, suggest bringing him around for introductions, but Connor always says that Haytham is still too unwell go out. Even though he is perfectly capable of walking about.

Connor does not want Haytham to become part of the homestead. And evidently, Haytham does not want to either.

.

_Overlooking that — that is his first mistake._

.

“Why did you do it?” Haytham asks at dinner one night. It is a late meal. They sit across from one another at the dining table, darkness held at bay by warm candlefire.

“What do you mean?” says Connor. He looks Haytham in the eye when he speaks, a custom he is trying to pick up. The cold intensity of his father’s eyes are even more bold in the low light; the sharpness of his features more pronounced.

“Why did you spare me, boy?” Haytham says. He puts his utensils down, folds his hands together, and watches Connor. The assassin suppresses a shiver. “Why did you save me, bring me to your quaint, rustic home, and nurse me back to health?”

“You are my father.”

Haytham purses his lips. Voice steely, he says, “We are enemies. That has not changed.”

“I understand that.” Connor glowers.

“Do you? You are not acting as though I am your enemy. Look at us,” Haytham scoffs, “We are enjoying a nice meal together. After this, we will probably have a fireside chat, in which we tease and snipe, pretending to be without ill intent. And then you will sleep peacefully with a templar under your roof.”

“And you will sleep peacefully in the house of an assassin,” Connor says, scowling fiercely.

“I will concede your point there. But remember that you are the one that brought the wolf inside.”

“I am no sheep.”

Haytham shakes his head. “No. But certainly, you are a fool.” He grabs his plate and stands. “Goodnight, boy. I believe I shall skip the fireside chat tonight.”

He strides out with an ease not present weeks before. His movements are fluid again, his walk the elegant gait of a predator. He is dangerous, Connor realizes, and the assassin angers at the thought. Even after all this time, Haytham is still a threat. Has Connor not done enough?

No. He hasn’t. But he will.

Connor stands and stalks after Haytham. He catches up to the man in the upstairs hall, and grips him by the bicep to stay his movement.

Haytham turns, a look of exasperation on his features. “What is it now, boy?”

Connor’s other hand takes hold of his father’s wrist. Though there are no canons firing, he is filled with a determination reserved for the battlefield.

“I love you, Father. That is why I saved you,” Connor says, and kisses Haytham.

.

_And this. This is his second mistake._

.

They sleep in one bed that night, bare skin pressed together. Connor murmurs the tale of Haytham’s rescue until his low tone draws his father to sleep.

Connor lies awake, thinking. He thinks that lying with another man, and blood relation, is less unforgivable than the other sins that stain his hands. He thinks that the slick slide of Haytham inside him, the bruising fingers on his hips and the fit of their lips together is, in the end, not so bad as having a man’s throat give in under the pressure of his thumb.

.

The spring is warm, the flowers bloom. Their routine changes: Connor brings Haytham hunting, and they spend many an afternoon in the wilds together. Haytham meets the other homesteaders, charms everyone besides Lyle, who is immune all charm. In the evening, Connor maintains his weapons as Haytham writes in his journal. At night, they...well. Fill in the blanks.

Their interactions still involve banter, but it’s laced with less hostility than before. Haytham brings up the templar-assassin divide less and less. The reports from Stephane are positive. Connor is hopeful.

When the Aquila is out of the bay, and Connor not with it, he convinces his father to go swimming. The water is cool, and the salt dries on their skin when they bathe in the sun afterward. Soon, purple and orange color the sky, and darkness sets — but the shadows are a respite, a cover from any watchful eyes, and Connor feels it is the beginning of a new day rather than an end.

.

Haytham never admits to loving him. Connor is tempted to peer into his journal, see if there is an evidence that his father is genuine in his affections. But he has more respect than that. He will be good in that one regard, even if he is bad in all others. He will trust.

.

_He is a fool._

.

One brisk morning, Haytham accompanies Connor to visit Achilles. Standing at the grave, Haytham says, “He was a cruel old man.”

“You did not know him,” Connor says, instinctively defensive.

“I know enough.” Haytham smiles — a bitter twist of his mouth. “What we do is cruel. He was a cruel man; we are cruel men. And that is how the world is in return for templars and assassins: cruel. It is penance for our actions.”

Connor is silent, unsure of how to respond. It has been a while since his father has spoken of these matters. In all honesty, Connor was hoping that he had begun to see the err of his ways, the foolishness of the battle, the futility of it. The wrongs of the templars, and the rights of the assassins.

“He was especially cruel for bringing you into this,” Haytham continues. “You could have been an innocent.”

Connor shakes his head slowly. “No. I do not believe I could have. My blood would not allow me.”

Haytham hums, considering. But he does not say anything else.

After some time, they return to the manor. The wind chills their backs, even as the sun rises overhead.

.

_There is still an ideal to achieve. Still a dream. Still a divide._

.

Haytham shuts the door behind them and draws Connor into his arms. He strips Connor of his weapons and out of his clothing, almost methodical were it not for the way his hands wandered over Connor’s body, his strong arms and broad chest. He pins Connor to the wall by the bed and sucks a harsh bruise onto his neck, and Connor allows the display of dominance despite the fact that he feels distinctly uncomfortable. It is not that his father does not usually touch so much, or make a show of his power over Connor. It is just that something feels off. Very wrong.

Connor notices it too late. It is that Haytham as not taken off his hidden blade.

The steel sinks into Connor’s abdomen, a terrible tremor of pain that he valiantly ignores. Haytham extracts the blade and attempts to move away, but Connor grabs the hand that his father used to press his shoulder to the wall, tightening his grip until he hears a sickening crunch. One heel violently crushes Haytham’s foot, and then Connor takes a gamble and slams his forehead into his father’s nose. Haytham staggers backwards, nearly toppling over.

“Not bad,” Haytham says, panting. “You aren’t as soft as I thought.”

“Do not do this.” Connor growls. He presses a hand to his midsection, and his fingers quickly become slick with blood. “Father. Do not.”

“The war is not over, my boy. You were a fool to ever think so.” Haytham laughs. “The war is ever-going, and there is no mercy. No love.”

A handful of months earlier, Connor might have seen red. He might have lunged, filled with rage, eyes wild and ruthless hands itching for justice. Now, though, he does not feel angry. Not at all.

“I will not let you rebuild the templars,” Connor says. He swiftly bends down and picks up the pistol Haytham had disarmed him of earlier. Haytham strikes, hidden blade going for Connor’s throat.

The gunshot is heard far across the homestead.

.

A journal is found, later — read with trembling fingers.

.

_There is no room for mercy, I have learned. And far less room for joy._

_I am sorry, my son. May he learn a lesson from this as well, if I am not wise enough to kill him._

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a fix-it and also like a 30k redemption-ish arc, but i got lazy. and writing this just made me realize that there is no way for conhayth to be happy unless you completely ignore canon  
> i think from now on i will just continue to write...porn...


End file.
